The Big Fight
by himynameisyoli
Summary: When Dr. Sweets is sent to New York City to get a young woman to talk, he realizes he's going to discover more than just the secrets she's hiding...but ones about himself, too.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Bones, any of its characters, or other related themes. That right belongs to FOX and an assortment of other people—none whom are me; I do however own this plot and an obsession with Dr. Lance Sweets.

**A/N:** I started writing this because Dr. Sweets is my favorite character on Bones (weird, I know) and I wanted to explore more of his character than the (painful) little of him we get to see on the show. I don't expect many reviews, but they would be awesome! I have quite a bit of this written, and if people seem to like it I'll post more. Gracias.

-A.

the big fight .

_he doesn't want her but he just won't let her go_

_she started breaking but she still won't let it show_

1

Lance Sweets has always prided himself on being the most calculating and sane person in any given situation. Even when he was a sixteen-year-old freshman in college who looked every bit of twelve, he found reassurance in the fact that he was probably more prepared for this experience than all of the older students. He knew that he would not choose drinking himself into oblivion over an important test, and that he wouldn't get so caught up in sex and lust that he let his academics slip—that is, if any girls looked at him as anything other than a reminder of their kid brother. No, Lance Sweets has never found any situation that he could not figure out, a person who he couldn't read just by noticing the slightest wrinkle in their brow or change in demeanor.

That is why as he turns to face the girl next to him he doesn't know how it is he ended up in this bed with her. How he came to be in this bed in a standard dorm room in New York City, where she is sleeping peacefully as a smile hints at the corners of her mouth. She is naked save for the sheet loosely covering her, her breasts pushing up beneath it. The sun forms shadows on her shoulders and collarbones, he traces the freckles splattered across her nose and cheeks, softly, lightly—like a whisper. She moves a bit under the covers and the sun illuminates her cinnamon skin and she blinks her eyes open, slowly. He thinks that maybe she will want him gone, forgetting their night of pizza and wine and crossing all kinds of lines—lines he is usually so aware of. But instead she smiles that smile of hers and her nose wrinkles slightly.

"This is the first day of my life," she whispers, kissing the side of his mouth gently.

And it is simple sentences like that one that got him in this situation in the first place.

Washington, D.C. – Two Months Earlier

When Dr. Lance Sweets arrived back from a late lunch with his girlfriend, Daisy Wick, he was shocked to see the two people he'd least expect standing outside his office. But there they were—Dr. Temperance Brennan and Agent Seeley Booth, standing outside his door as if it was something that came as naturally to them as breathing.

OK, that's not exactly the truth. They were standing there awkwardly with their arms folded whispering heatedly about, "who would talk to him." Sweets chuckled—and everyone teased him about being young.

"Hello, Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth—didn't expect to see the two of you here without being forced. What brought you to my office, are you ready to actually take me seriously?"

"Don't flatter yourself, kid" said Booth, "where the heck were you? We've been here for the last forty-five minutes, you know, because you were supposed to be back then."

"You and Dr. Brennan are not the only ones who break a few rules here and there" winked Sweets, "now, if you're not here for a session what are you here for?"

It was then that Dr. Brennan launched into a longwinded and somewhat awkward description of a witness she and Booth were having no luck with. What always amazed Sweets about Dr. Brennan was how she could go on and on about a subject, but because of her need to be accurate on all points—and her penchant for talking slightly fast when feeling something was dire—he never quite got what she was saying.

"So" he said when she'd finished and had looked to Booth for support, "what you're saying is that you have a witness who won't talk to the two of you about what it is they witnessed. How is this new? I thought that's what interrogation was for."

"It's not that she just won't talk to us about what she saw, do you really think we need your help to interrogate someone? Anyway, it's that she won't speak—at all. We need you to shrink her," said Booth.

"So you need me to get her to talk, and thus help with your interrogation." Before Booth could say anything Sweets had agreed, asking which interrogation room he could find the witness in.

There was silence from both Brennan and Booth, which was definitely not normal. When Sweets turned around cautiously, thinking maybe they were planning to ambush him, he saw that neither was looking at him. In fact, Booth was staring up at the ceiling and Dr. Brennan was looking from side to side.

"Dr. Brennan?" Asked Sweets, knowing how hard it was for her to lie about anything, "which interrogation room is your witness in?"

Sweets half expected Booth to chastise him about choosing the easy target first, but Sweets saw from a quick glance that Booth looked relieved; this must be really bad.

"Well, she isn't—I mean, in an interrogation room. She was until yesterday, when her mother—, who's a lawyer, said it was pointless to keep her daughter there when she simply wouldn't speak. And we couldn't disagree because it was—"

"She's in New York, Sweets."

Sweets was about to tell them to call one of the many bureau psychologists in the state of New York when Booth pleaded with him to do them this favor. "I know I may tease you a lot, and that Bones and I don't particularly…behave in your sessions, but you're great at what you do. And whether or not you have a real degree or one out of your fruit loops box" Dr. Brennan cleared her throat at this and Booth mumbled an apology, "you're the only one we trust with this kid. Please."

"Are you saying you respect me as a colleague, Agent Booth?" Asked Sweets enjoying this begging from one half of his most stubborn clients.

"Sure, whatever" Booth took his wallet out of his back pocket and removed a plastic card, handing it to Dr. Sweets. "This card has funds on it from the last time Bones and me were on an undercover assignment. It has $5,000 on it which should set you up for at least a couple of days in the city, hoping you don't need more than a day, though. If you need more money, just contact me and I'll contact the bureau."

Sweets looked at the card in his hand, "isn't this for use by FBI personal only?"

Booth gave that charming smile of his, "you are FBI personal. If you meant agents only—technically, yes; but this is technically off the books."

"Alright, I'll leave tomorrow morning" said Sweets, now eager for a cup of coffee although he wasn't even much of a coffee drinker.

Booth stiffly thanked Sweets while Dr. Brennan hugged him awkwardly. When they were almost to the elevator Booth turned around and called out to him, "Sweets—why were you forty-five minutes late from lunch?"

"Goodbye, Agent Booth" Dr. Sweets called back in answer, slipping into his office and shutting the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I still don't own anything but too much time on my hands!

**A/N:** Midnight666-thank you for the review and the story favorite—I honestly wasn't expecting it! Sweets definitely deserves all the love he gets ;D.

2

Sweets had been to New York a couple of times before. The first was when he was a freshman in high school, aged eleven. Because of the unusual circumstances surrounding his high school career, he'd taken a standardized test usually reserved only for juniors and a few seniors. He scored the perfect score on the test, no surprise to him or his parents. The school district made a big deal out of it; as if they were responsible for the exceptionally high IQ he'd exhibited since the age of six. He was flown to Manhattan for a meeting of the twenty high school students "Destined to Change the World." He didn't understand why he'd been selected to attend this gala, as he seemed to be the least qualified of all the students. Many of them had already started their own nonprofit organizations to send shoes to children in developing countries, or were high school seniors who'd started projects to help their communities that now brought in millions. And here he was, on the cusp of turning twelve in a scratchy tie, with a chaperone (upon his mother's insistence) and nothing to show but test scores.

The other kids were welcoming enough, although juniors and seniors seemed to steer clear of him if only on principle—no matter how much of an awesome person one is, younger kids are never welcome. The freshmen talked to him and asked him a lot of questions about what it's like being eleven and in high school; the sophomores commended him on being able to handle the hell that is high school at such a young age.

The second time he'd been in New York, was a year earlier as he completed his dissertation for his Ph.D. After he'd given a presentation at the Governor's Ball he had another day to spend in the city, doing whatever his heart desired. He visited Ground Zero to pay his respect to the thousands of people who'd lost their lives there, visited Times Square, the Virgin Megastore, and other touristy things. He'd visited the Strand bookstore, thinking that in this way he would standout from all the other tourists as a seasoned New Yorker. But this made him the biggest tourist of all, for the Strand has long been a tourist hotspot (especially for those who want to seem like seasoned New Yorkers) and Gossip Girl had made it even more popular amongst the teenage girl set. The "real" New Yorkers were instantly recognizable amongst the throngs of people, and they seemed to be smirking at Sweets as he tried to browse the books nonchalantly.

Today there were no touristy pursuits or somehow feeling awkward when surrounded by kids covered in pimples. No, when he got off his 3pm flight at John F. Kennedy airport, the only thing on his mind was finding this girl and hopefully—quickly, figuring out why she wouldn't talk to Bones or Booth. Sweets knew that the two could make someone feel a little confused—after all, Booth's interrogation method of being "understanding yet tough" could leave anyone not knowing what to say. And Bones' to the point approach carefully presenting all the facts could leave you feeling that she was cold when she was not trying to be.

Sweets had went over the case file while on the plane, after the third romantic comedy had become unbearable and he felt self-conscious about lurking around on facebook. The case file included a picture of the young woman in question, a pretty girl. Her name was Brighton Rivers and in the picture she was smiling with her long black hair pulled into a ponytail and bangs falling into her eyes. Her skin was brown and the color of cinnamon, freckles sprinkled lightly across her face. She didn't look like someone who was so troubled, who'd witnessed something so horrible they wouldn't even speak. But if Lance Sweets had learned anything in his study of the human mind, it was that looks could be the most deceiving of all—especially photos.

He read her file; Brighton Holden Rivers ("really? 'Holden', like Holden Caulfield?" he thought dubiously while smirking) was an eighteen year old undergrad at Columbia University. The file did not say what she was studying, as it didn't pertain to the case. It did however give a full history of her life until that point: grew up in California with an investment banker father and lawyer mother, two younger siblings a boy and a girl. And oh yeah, the little fact that she was present when her father died as proven by evidence, her father was murdered from blunt trauma to the head as determined by his bones and Dr. Brennan. What Sweets found odd and intriguing is that his bones were discovered in a cellar approximately three months after his death, meaning the girl had known he was dead the whole time and not said anything. Sweets would've thought her a suspect herself if she had not been ruled out. He sighed; Dr. Brennan and Booth owed him big time for this favor.

He hailed a taxi and made his way to the university; outside in a nearby café students were enjoying each other's company, reading books and studying for tests, on laptops doing research or just IMing one another. He spotted a girl out of the corner of his eye, and turned around just in time to see Brighton Rivers sitting at a table. The taxi was almost around the corner when Sweets yelled for him to stop, apologizing softly and thrusting $30 in his hand, telling him to keep the change.

He turns and starts to walk back to the café. The girl is clear in his vision now; she is reading a book studiously and looks to be engrossed. He sits at the table across from her and orders a sweet tea. She is reading _On the Road _by Kerouac, a book Sweets read himself as a high school junior when he was yearning to leave the woes of high school life behind. He wonders why she is reading it, if there is something she's yearning to leave behind. When the waitress arrives with his tea he thanks her and stands up, with the intention of speaking to the girl.

He stands there for a moment, not sure what it is he should say. Does he immediately introduce himself as Lance Sweets, FBI and risk her not speaking to him as she did the others. Or does he go up to her and flirt, hoping it works and that she isn't mad when she learns who he really is? Both ideas seem like a disaster waiting to happen, and he settles on playing it by ear, and doing neither.

"Enjoying the book?" he asks.

She doesn't look up when she answers, "I guess."

"I liked it a lot," he says, still standing as the sun beats down on his neck.

"That's nice," she says in a clipped businesslike tone.

Sweets stands and waits for her to look up. After five minutes she does so as she takes a sip of her lemonade. She takes one look at him in his suit and cobalt blue tie and rolls her eyes. "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying. And I am not interested in discussing with you why I should make the Lord Jesus my savior, but thank you."

"What?" He asks, and then he realizes how he must look. He thinks that he should've worn a t-shirt and jeans, something he often wears on his days off but decides he mustn't worry about something that can't be changed. Instead, he thinks on his feet, "Oh! I uh, wear a suit for my job but I'm not a salesman or in a seminary." It wasn't a lie.

She looks up at him again, "in that case…why don't you have a seat. I mean, it's really hot and you're kind of pale and the umbrella is probably far more inviting."

He sits across from her and looks at her. She doesn't seem to be stressed or traumatized, and despite her initial reaction to him, she seems to be warming up. He takes the opportunity to again ask her about the book.

"It's okay. I'm interested in counterculture and the Beat Generation and things like that so I thought I'd read the book. And while it's not horrible or anything, I find I prefer reading about Mr. Kerouac and his associates via the Internet and photos more than I do his novel. Maybe I just don't "appreciate" his greatness." She grins, "You never introduced yourself…and I think you should since you just invited yourself to start talking to me and everything."

Sweets pauses. Does he introduce himself as Dr. Lance Sweets and discard the minor but positive process he's made? Or does he simply give his name so she let's her guard down more? He thinks of the plastic card in his wallet and how Booth said if it took longer than two days, just call for more money. And although Sweets wanted to get back to D.C., his life, and his girlfriend as soon as possible, making sure the witness came out of this OK and not more messed up than before was his priority.

"Lance" he said, extending his hand, "my name is Lance Sweets."

She shakes his hand; her nails are painted candy apple red. "I'm Brighton, and that's all you need to know for now." She winks. Her hair is different than in the picture; it is down and hangs to her shoulders. The tips have been bleached a brown color by the sun while the roots remain black. Her bangs are constantly falling in her eyes and she keeps blowing them away. Sweets would think that it'd be frustrating, but she is probably used to it by now. He doesn't let on that he already knows her last name—and her interesting literary middle name, and let's her continue to believe she is mysterious to him.

"So" she asks after she's marked her page and closed the book, "what do you do that requires you to wear a suit all day?"

"Office drone" he says, partially because it is the first phrase that pops into his mind and partially because he's always wanted to say it.

She nods sympathetically and looks him over again. "You don't look much older than me, if it weren't for the duds I'd take you for an undergrad at my school.

Sweets pretends to be oblivious, "I just graduated last year, myself. What school? NYU? Columbia? Barnard?"

"Columbia. What do you do in that office of yours, might I ask?"

"Economics" he says. For someone who studies people and their body language, and frequently decodes when they are lying and when they are being truthful, he was hilariously good at the former himself.

She makes a face, "sounds terribly boring, sorry."

Sweets laughs out loud, because he feels the exact same way. He is enjoying this alternate version of himself he has created, and goes on to vehemently defend economics and its importance for the next ten minutes. "Anyway, miss fun and adventure, what is your area of study?"

"Archaeology with a minor in history" she says, smiling.

"Interesting; I wouldn't have pegged you for an archaeologist, more like a librarian."

"A librarian!"

Sweets senses her shock in her voice. "Hey now, the days of the plain, old, boring librarian have far been replaced by kickass librarians. I've known awesome librarians with piercings and almost all of them sexy and interesting in that quietly subdued kind of way."

"I am neither quiet nor subdued" Brighton clarifies, "though I am sexy and interesting."

And Sweets doesn't disagree.


	3. Chapter 3

3

After two weeks of conversations and spending time with Brighton he notes many observations. And while interesting, fun, intelligent, witty, and funny are commendable adjectives to describe anyone, they are not ones that would help Booth and Dr. Brennan. However, he does note that not once in all of their conversations does Brighton ever mention her father—not once. She mentions that her mother is a human rights lawyer who lives and works in California, "my mom lives, breathes, eats, and shits law" clarifies Brighton one day whilst they are enjoying a breakfast of pancakes in her dorm. Sweets had stopped by that morning to check up on her and maybe finally tell her who he really was and about his true motives. But when he'd arrived she'd been so happy to see him and had hugged him in her tank top and shorts. She smelled really good—like lotion and incense and shampoo, and the smile on her face permitted him from being anything other than Lance the Economist.

She'd also told him about how she'd lived with her parents until she was thirteen, when she was sent to a boarding school in Vermont, which she hated because she loved California's weather. But she says her parents didn't care, as they never really talked to her about anything. She says that while she hated leaving her younger brother and sister behind, and California itself, there were also, "wonderful advantages to being away…to being free." In a way she does mention her father, but it is always in a couple in reference to both her parents, never in the biographical way in which she talks about her mother.

Every night while in New York Sweets video chats with Booth and Dr. Brennan, giving them synopses of what he has discussed with Brighton. While she still doesn't know who he is, he says that he's really getting somewhere with her and that he doesn't want to rush it, that he finds it odd she doesn't talk about her father. Booth asks why doesn't he just ask and Sweets says, while he doesn't think it'd jeopardize his cover as it is a simple enough question, he also doesn't think it the right route to go.

He also speaks to Daisy every night over the phone. She tells him about how much she misses him and gives him gossip on the others. She asks when he'll be back in a small voice, and when he says he doesn't know she is silent for a bit before saying she understands. She mentions that it must be difficult having to form a relationship with a complete stranger, and he agrees not letting on that Brighton has made it exceptionally easy. That he will even be sorry when it is over and she inevitably hates him and they cannot savage a kind of friendship.

After Sweets has been in New York City for a week his nightly chat with Brennan and Booth is interrupted by a request from Daisy. He tells them he has to go, that the takeout guy just arrived and chats with Daisy. He'd forgotten how beautiful she was with her dark brown hair cascading across her shoulders, her skin pale in the glare of the camera. She tells him she's missed him, and begins to remove her shirt, then her bra.

He watches in awe as she asks him where would he like her to begin, and he clears his throat, not quite knowing what to say.

Lance is not quite sure how he would classify his relationship with Brighton, from a normal person's point of view. From the point of view of the person whom he is pretending to be, Lance Sweets, economist who happened to meet her outside of a café.

When he really thinks about it, he has to admit that he would classify them as a couple that has been 'dating.' Openly dating, as they have not committed to one another or even recognized their meetings as dates; and while they could be classified as a gathering amongst two friends, Lance knows that they aren't. The late nights spent watching movies and falling asleep on the futon in her dorm, the early morning meetings and breakfasts, the debates, the way she looks at him. Lance feels bad about what he is doing, as he knows that there are many layers of armor Brighton had to remove to feel so comfortable around him. She is not the kind of girl who easily trusts, and he notes that something traumatic must've happened early in life for her to do this. And so it is on his fourteenth night in New York City, the night he decides he will leave for D.C. before resuming talking with her again, that he decides to admit the truth.

Brighton has never seen his hotel room, as she thinks he lives in an old apartment building on the Upper Westside under renovation and is currently staying with his parents. However, one night he rents a car to brave the traffic of the city and takes her to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. He'd googled "fantastic restaurants in the NYC area" and while many had come up, this one caught his attention the most. It was located in Brooklyn and had many positive reviews. The overall consensus was the food great, staff friendly, and the feel "cozy."

He picked her up at 7 and his breath caught in his throat. All the while playing this character—half-truth and half lies, he'd constantly reminded himself that, when it was all said and done, she was a patient. Whether or not she knew it yet was not his concern. But as his eyes followed her down the stairs in that black pencil skirt and sleeveless, white-ruffled blouse that was dipped low, he couldn't help but note how gorgeous she was. Her hair was in a severe bun and her signature bangs falling softly in her eyes. She had on kitten heels and makeup—and although it was the lightest hint of makeup, it was still something he'd not seen her wearing in the two weeks he'd known her.

"You look absolutely gorgeous," he said as she shut the door and strapped herself in.

"Thank you, Lance," she said, "I didn't want to overdress but I didn't want to go the jeans or t-shirt route, either. I think I did a good job of straddling the line."

He nodded in agreement, and they drove in silence. They talked and laughed and joked as usual, and while eating dessert (flan and a scoop of vanilla ice-cream), he suddenly grew quiet.

"Hey—you okay?" She asked, smiling reassuringly at him from across the table.

It's now or never, he thought. "I've got something to tell you."

She sucked in her breath, "Oh, what? I mean, we've only known one another two weeks…I wasn't expecting some big secret just yet." She smiles that winning smile of hers once again, and he almost wants to make a joke.

"I don't have an apartment on the Upper Westside." He says, feeling stupid.

"Okay…" She says, looking at him oddly, "so what."

"And I'm not an economist" he continues.

She stops eating and sits back in her seat, "what's going on?"

"My name is Lance Sweets and I do wear a suit for work, I am kind of an office drone as I have my own, and I did graduate from university last year. Only with my doctorate allowing me to practice psychology; my name is Dr. Lance Sweets and I am a psychologist with the FBI in Washington, D.C. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

She looks shattered. Her mouth goes slack, her eyes widen, and she puts a hand to her mouth. She looks around and, ever the lady, excuses herself quietly as not to make a scene in the restaurant amongst the other guests. He leaves the bill and tip on the table and runs out after her into the night. He wonders if she's broke out in a run and is far, but she is sitting on the curb in the back, her head in her hands, defeated. He sits down next to her and there is an intense silence.

"I'm so, so sorry, Brighton. I am, a thousand times over." And it is the truth.

"It was all a lie," she says slowly, quietly.

He doesn't say anything, what is there to say?

"The FBI…you work with them—with…with the anthropologist and the agent with the skinny ties. They sent you to talk to me, to lie to me and gain my trust and—"

"No." He says, "They never told me what to say, and it wasn't all lies. Those conversations we had, the jokes, the late nights—"

"Shut up!" She says, and her voice is sharp and deadly low. She sighs. "I won't talk about it. About him, about what happened. Not now and not ever, so those were a wasted two weeks. I'm sorry you had to tell all those lies and pretend to be interested in me all for nothing."

"Brighton, I know you're angry now but I really only want to help you. I want to help you through this. In the two weeks I've known you, you haven't mentioned your father at all, and you seem to pretend as if he wasn't killed right in front of you…it's perplexing even for me to make sense of."

She looks at him then, her eyes shiny and dark. "I didn't ask you to shrink me. You know nothing about my relationship with my father, and you never will." She stands up to leave, and he begs her to at least let him drive her to her dorm. "Manhattan is a long way from Brooklyn" he says.

"I actually live here; I think I can manage paying for a fucking taxi—although the bill will be unbelievable."

"Let me pay for it" he pleads.

"You've done enough, _Dr_. Sweets!" She yells as she walks away, saying his title like a foreign word with too many syllables for her American tongue.

And as she retreats into the darkness, he can't help the sadness, the emptiness that encompasses him. He usually has the answers to everything, some rational way in which to explain things to everyone. And while he wanted to tell her that he'd told her things about himself—complete truths that he'd never told anyone, and that he considered her to be a friend—a real one without lies or barriers, he couldn't. All he could see was a girl who'd learned long ago not to trust anyone, adding him to the list of the many people she could not trust, and more armor going up around her young heart.

He got the first plane back to D.C. with her heartbroken face still fresh in his mind, determined to make things right, to gain her trust again and find out her truths. It was no longer a matter of doing a favor for Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth, of helping them to find out who had murdered Brighton's father. Now it was something else entirely. It was something he had to do for himself, and most of all, for her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I forgot this last chapter, so FOX please don't sue me! I own nothing, nothing!

**A/N:** A lot of people have put this fic on their alert list, thank you so much! It's great to know people are reading :)! And Khoi—thank you! I was a bit skeptical that people wouldn't be able to get into the fic because of the original character but I'm glad you dig it.

4

Washington D.C. – The Following Morning

Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan were waiting outside his office for his report. He said that nothing had changed and that he would be leaving for New York again in a week, and that he would not be back again until he had an answer in the case for them. He didn't mention that he would also have one for himself, and that it wouldn't be someone he considered a friend not speaking to him. Booth had seemed exasperated, and asked Sweets if he had any direction at all in the matter.

"Not now, Agent Booth" Sweets hand answered more confidently and firmly than her knew possible. And Booth had looked taken aback before turning on his heel with Dr. Brennan hanging behind.

"Bones, you coming?"

"I'll meet you in the lobby, Booth." She said, and then turning her attention back to Dr. Sweets, "a word, please?"

He sighed, unlocking his door. "I am really not in the mood, Dr. Brennan. Save it for the session this afternoon, OK?"

She followed him inside his office. It was muggy from the air not being on in two weeks, and he quickly turned it on and let the windows up briefly, allowing in some fresh air.

"This is not about Booth or me" she clarified, "it is about…your apparent discomfort over something. As you have just arrived back earlier this morning, it could be jetlag from you not getting any sleep. But as I have become increasingly aware of human emotion from interactions with my coworkers, I think it is more than that. And since you were in New York for the past two weeks, it is either dealing with that or someone you disliked on the flight."

Sweets allowed a half smile to escape, "you sure you aren't a psychologist, Dr. Brennan?"

"Quite, I loathe psychology" She answered before a look washed over her face, "Oh. That was a joke. Anyway, what's wrong? You can talk to me, I won't tell Booth or anyone else."

He knew she wouldn't. And he also knew that her practical view and honest answer to things could help him in this situation.

"It's Brighton, the girl you and Booth sent me to talk to. As you know, I had to do a bit of "undercover work" myself, and in doing so I discovered that she's really a great person. Interesting, smart, funny, kind, compassionate—you know, all the things that make someone great. And when I told her the truth last night…God, she really hates me. And I can't blame her, I mean, she trusted me after a lifetime of always having to put this wall up and I turn out to be lying to her. Another person with ulterior motives and someone to hurt her, and it's just been bothering me."

Dr. Brennan nodded. "It sounds to me like you care a great deal about this girl. And if it's one thing I am certain of, it is that caring for a person is a wonderful thing. And if this girl is as exceptional as you make her sound, then you are right to be concerned about your actions." She pauses, "but you did it to try and help her, and because Agent Booth and I asked you—thank you. But as someone who has been hurt and misled by those they trust in the past, and as a young girl who had to learn how to remove her mental block and who is still doing so today, I can tell you that all is not lost, Dr. Sweets. And you have to keep trying if you don't want to lose a friend."

He smiles, "thank you, Dr. Brennan. That really helped me a lot."

She nods, "I'm glad. I'll see you this afternoon."

"This afternoon" he says, nodding and smiling.

That night Daisy comes over and they make love for the first time in two weeks. It isn't as blissfully wonderful as making love should be after a two-week separation, as his thoughts are elsewhere. If Daisy notices how far-off he is, she doesn't let on and after they have made love she falls asleep nestled in the crook of his arms. He'd forgotten that, how she falls asleep close to him, their breathing patterns becoming one. It is usually nice to watch her sleep, to trace the contours of her face in his head and caress the softness of her hair. But tonight, when he is sure she is sleep he gently untwines himself from her and goes into the kitchen.

He thinks that maybe a slice of cake and some warm milk will make him fill better despite how unhealthy it is to have at night. But instead this just makes him feel full and weighed down. His thoughts go back to the girl he left behind in New York City, broken and alone, folded into herself. He picks up his phone and, hands shaky, dials her number. It is his house phone and his name won't show up on the caller ID of her cell phone. However, when she doesn't answer the phone he thinks she must somehow, instinctively, know that it is him.

"Hi! You've reached B, I'm either busy, sleep, or just don't wanna talk to you, haha. Either way, you're listening to my recorded voice so drop me a line and I'll more than likely get back to you! Ok bye." He looked at the clock and saw that it was 3am. No wonder she didn't answer the phone, not only was he rude but he was calling her in the early hours of the morning, while she was probably sleeping. He imagined her face; her eyes shut tight, and hoped that she was having a blissful sleep. And that her pillow was not tear streaked or that he didn't complicate the mystery of her life even more.

"Hi, Brighton—it's Lance. I know you probably don't want to hear from me at all right now and I couldn't blame you. I'm just calling to check up on you, and let you know that I meant what I said…about it all not being a lie; I really do care about you. And I hope that someday we can call each other friend. Alright gotta go before the beep hits, goodnight."

He puts his phone back on its charger just as Daisy comes wandering into the kitchen in a sleepy haze. She yawns, "what you doing up so early?"

"I uh…had an intense sweet tooth out of nowhere" he says holding up the saucer, and noting how good he is becoming at spinning webs of lies.

"Oh" she smiles, "I'm happy you like my cake. I just got a little worried…you've never done that before."

"Done what?" He asks, getting up off the stool and going over to the sink to rinse the dish and fork.

"Left me alone in bed; I am always like…hyperaware of your presence, and after awhile I noticed that the warmness had left, and I woke up to find that I was alone. And…I like when you're near." She shakes her head and laughs, "I sound really needy, I'm sorry."

Sweets moves over to her and takes her face in his hands, kissing her forehead. He has never met anyone like Daisy before—someone so caring, so bold, and honest. Yet sometimes he sees her vulnerability, and that is what he adores about her most; that even brave girls like her have weaknesses, need reassurance. "You don't sound needy at all, Daisy. You sound normal, you used to that?"

She laughs, "You're right. Gah, it's 3:30 in the morning, let's go back to bed, please."

"OK, let's go" he says.

"Lance?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

He knew that at some point in their relationship, those three words would have to come up somewhere. The thing is, he'd never really gave much thought to when because he thought they were both ok with just being. He knew—as a person and as psychologist who had to work with Brennan and Booth who could barely even admit that they were best friends let alone in love—that those three words were not easy to say.

He is trying to think of what to say when she interjects, "its okay…you don't have to say it now. I just, well, I love you and it's a stupid thing to hold in."

"You don't mean that, those exact words are used by people around the world to mean the exact opposite of how they really feel. Which is you want me to say it back, but you don't want it to hurt anymore than it already does and you don't want me to get freaked out by "'I love you.'"

Daisy rolls her eyes then. "You know, Lance, for a genius and a shrink, you sure are oblivious as to what a condescending jerk you are."

She storms out of the kitchen and hurriedly picks her jeans up off the floor, hurriedly sliding them on. She puts her jacket on over her camisole and slips into her flip flops, putting her hair into a sloppy ponytail. "Un-fucking-believable."

Her watches as she leaves him standing alone in his empty apartment, and he doesn't try to stop her; he doesn't even laugh at the pathetic irony of her being the second woman he cares about to leave him in two days. Leaving him with words of how horrible and uncaring he is, and he is starting to think that maybe he is. Is it normal for any one person to not know how to say the right thing? At least Dr. Brennan has an excuse of living in her own bubble, of barely knowing how to google, and only owning a TV for her movie nights with her "strictly platonic friend and partner" Agent Booth. What was Sweets?

Up until a couple of weeks ago, he was sure that he had everything figured out, that he was always balanced and logical, and that the key to never getting into conflict was being one step ahead of everyone around him. But he was now realizing that he'd never really understood people, he just understood how to shrink them, and it was all coming back to bite him squarely in the ass.

He lay down in his boxers on his bed, with the rumpled sheets still warm and smelling of her. Although the lights are off and there is only the sound of the insects outside. Usually, even when he is in his most wired and/or frustrated state, they help to calm him enough to allow his body to fall asleep. But today, he lies awake until the sun breaks through the blinds.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** Nothing belongs to me.

**A/N:** I wrote this chapter over the summer, so that's why Booth and Bones' reaction to his memory loss is a little different from how the show has been portraying it :).

Khoi-Ugh yes, I'm not much of a Daisy fan either. I really don't get what Sweets sees in her because—yes, while opposites _do _attract that doesn't mean one of them has to be incredibly annoying. I'm also really glad my character doesn't strike you as a Mary-Sue, as I think that's every fic writer's biggest fear.

5

"Booth's temporary memory loss made us realize a lot of things about our friendship and our partnership, respectively and jointly."

It was a week later and Sweets was in another session with his favorite oblivious pair. He'd been grateful for the week's separation in their sessions, because for the first time, he did not know how he would handle them against his own battles. He'd always taken a kind of solace in being in control of the situation, knowing how they felt when they were suppressing those same feelings. But now, now he wasn't sure how qualified he was to tell them anything, or help them along the way to figuring things out.

"What sort of things, Dr. Brennan?" He asked.

"Well…we realized that we really do care about one another, and each other's wellbeing. A kind of focus of many of our sessions with you has been you trying to get us to see how dependent we are on one another, and that it's not a completely bad thing or something to be afraid to admit."

Dr. Sweets nodded, "and what conclusion have the two of you drawn?"

Brennan nods to Booth, who clears his throat and adjusts his tie. "Well, we talked about everything—all the fears and hesitations we'd been previously afraid to share with one another. And we found that we felt the same way about a lot of things, and that we had a lot of common ground."

"And that's a good thing, because if we're going to bring a child into this world—our child, then we need to be on the same page, always" finished Dr. Brennan with a quick nod, looking to Sweets for his approval.

"That's wonderful to hear, really. And it's not something you needed me to tell you or guide you towards, it's something you've both known all along. Dr. Brennan, when you started the discussion, you said that Booth's memory loss made us realize. Meaning you and Booth came to this conclusion on your own, propelled by his surgery and not me. So, you've decided to raise the child together?" Sweets was usually never invasive, even mildly so, but he found that he'd never had such an open discussion with the two before, and he didn't know if he ever would again.

"That's true," says Brennan, pondering this, "but I don't think it would've been possible for us to come to this decision at all without your helping. Before you, we would've just thought it another experience, but not a catalyst for us being honest."

Booth sighed, "Basically Sweets, thanks for getting us to be all open about our feelings."

Sweets smiled and walked them to the door, "I'll see you two next week."

He found himself calling Daisy again who, for the first time in a week, picked up the phone. He could tell that she was trying to sound normal and like she hadn't checked the caller id first. But instead of pointing this out, he went along and said "hey", making an attempt not to be a condescending jerk.

There was a silence before he spoke again, "I guess I should do the talking since I called. How are you?"

"I'm fine." She said in a clipped tone, although it was warm.

"Good, good. Listen…I'm sorry for what happened, and I really, really want to continue dating you. I'm just not ready to say those words yet, and I hope you don't think it reflects you or my commitment to you or where I feel like we're going with this thing—because it doesn't. I'm just…I don't believe in rushing to put labels on things, I don't think long-term happiness is about that.

"Well" she says slowly, "I guess I can respect your condescending jerk psychologist spiel." She laughs, "Really though, I understand. And that's all you had to say in the first place, but let's not worry about that. Dinner tonight, my place?"

He sighed, tapping his foot. "I actually can't, I have to get back to New York."

"You're still working on that case? I thought you'd resolved it…"

"No, I just decided to come home so I didn't completely neglect my actual paying job. There's still some things—a lot of things, that haven't been resolved." He hasn't talked to Daisy about the case. Even if she hadn't been angry with him for the past week, he wouldn't have divulged details to her.

"Oh. Well, I guess it best you resolve them now so I can finally have you all to myself."

He smiles, "Yes. I'll call you tomorrow when I arrive."

"That a promise, Dr. Sweets?" She knows how calling him that gets him.

"Oh yes. Goodbye, Daisy."

He tries to call Brighton on the plane, but as usual, it goes to her voicemail. He doesn't leave a message telling her he is on his way. Partially because he's pissed off that she's still not talking to him and hasn't realized why he lied in the first place (or how hard it was to be honest), and also because he knows she'll make herself invisible if he does. So instead he sighs and hangs up when her voicemail picks up, and takes a much-needed nap.

His sleep schedule has been abnormal for the last week; some nights he is able to get a few hours of sleep, and others he tosses and turns with so much on his mind. Resolving the issues with Daisy must've helped some, because he sleeps on the plane until the flight attendant announces their arrival in New York City.

When he gets off the plane, he wastes no time finding her. The city isn't mysterious to him anymore, although there are still so many things about it he doesn't understand, places he has not seen. But from the moment he steps off that plane and into the nosy, bustling airport, he is reminded of her. It is déjà vu all over again, and he is hailing a taxi and looking for her at the café before he knows it. It is just past midnight and there are no stars in the sky—something he is used to in D.C., but for some reason night in NYC still feels enchanting. D.C. is an equally busy place on its own, but there is something about how New York is just awake at midnight as it is at noon that he finds awe-inspiring. It is simply as if someone turned out all the lights and said "the show must go on."

She isn't at the café, and he hopes that she is in her dorm and not out with friends. He desperately needs to see her, not to make things right although that is important too. He needs to see her because he knows he will not be able to sleep again, live again, until he knows that she is real. That she is not just that sad memory she left him with, the one that he brought upon himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

6

He finds her sitting outside her dorm room, reading a book under a blanket by flashlight. He also finds that she is not alone, but joined by a young man with dark hair and long lashes. She looks content nestled against him, holding one end of the book, and they are laughing at a particular passage when he comes into view. They look up—her companion only briefly, probably taking him as nothing more than another student, but her eyes flash. She holds his gaze longer than the man, before looking back down at the book. However, it is obvious that her mind is no longer on it.

Sweets is trying to figure out what to say, how to interrupt. He knows it has to be done, and that she is not just going to end her…meeting, to accommodate him.

"Hey, Brighton; I called you from the plane but I didn't get an answer, I'm sorry to interrupt so late."

She breathed in sharply. This time her companion did actually look at him. He didn't look upset or confused, only trying to see if he placed Sweets face, if maybe he knew him too.

She tells her guest that she's sorry and stands up. He stands up too, folding the blanket and placing it in her arms. "Its okay, B. We've studied as much as we can for the history test, anyway. It we pass or fail, it definitely isn't for lack of trying."

She laughs and hugs him, he bends down and picks the book up off the floor and waves to Sweets, wishing him a goodnight. Sweets wonders what he's thinking, if that her sending him away as soon as he came is because they're going to go into her dorm and make love. Sweets enjoys the idea of her friend thinking he her boyfriend or late night lover, and he shakes the thought from his mind.

"He probably thinks I'm your boyfriend, and that any chance he thought he had with you is ruined."

"Is that an observation or some of your shrinking, Dr. Sweets?" She asks in a low voice.

"An observation" he says, just glad she is speaking to him. He'd forgotten how alternately sexy and sweet her voice was, the perfect combination.

She leans against her door, "Esa is just a friend. There is absolutely nothing between the two of us, and I doubt he gave you much thought—that includes if you'd be joining me in bed or not." She sighs softly and looks him over, "you look like shit."

"Jetlag" he says.

"Ah yes, back for more snooping around to suit your own needs?" She asks, opening the door and motioning for him to come inside, saying she doesn't want to be rude.

"No. I mean, I do still want to find out who killed your father, but not just because it's what I told my friends I'd do. That is one reason, yes, but I also want to help you. I know you don't trust me, and I know I deserve it, but I care about you Brighton. And if I didn't I wouldn't be here. You know, I didn't even tell anyone I was coming?" He thinks about how he told Daisy, and decides that if he's ever going to gain even a fraction of Brighton's trust again he has to be honest.

"Well, I told one person, but it was someone who has no stake in anything you tell me. In fact, they know no details other than I had to go to New York again. I know I can't make everything right overnight, but I will. And you might as well make it easy because I'm not leaving until I do—so at least pretend to like me."

She holds her mouth in a tight line. She has on mint colored pajama bottoms, slippers, and an orange camisole. Her dark hair is tucked behind her ears and she is sitting on the table in her small kitchen area. "Which hotel are you staying at?"

"I…I came straight here. God, it's going to be impossible to find a decently priced one that isn't infested with rats and hookers at this time of night."

He thinks that she must be ignoring him and reveling silently in his misfortune, for she turns her back on him and goes into her room. But when she comes out she is holding a pillow, a sheet, and the blanket she was under with her friend earlier.

"You can sleep on the futon, just because I'm a good person and I don't think anyone should be subjected to New York City roaches and semen stains."

"Right" he says.

"You have to be out of here by 9, because that's when I leave for my first class. And don't expect to sleep here tomorrow night because I want to make it very clear that I loathe you."

He nods. She exhales and turns around, leaving him to his own devices.

He let's the futon out and puts the bedding on it. They smell wonderful, like her--like coconut shampoo, incense, and soap. He thinks it is the most intoxicating smell. Her hears her as she switches positions in the bed, listens to the covers as they rustle, and finds contentment in knowing that she is so close by. That she is close enough to hear, and that even though three hours ago he hadn't spoken to her in weeks, he was now right next door to her in a dorm with thin walls although she wanted him to believe she hated him. He knew she didn't, he could tell by her body language, the way she answered questions, and the questions she asked in turn. But he was learning that it was best to sometimes indulge people and not always let them know you have them figured out. That it was the only way to maybe figuring himself out.

And as he listened to the cars down below and the people talking outside those walls, he fell asleep and slept the whole night for the first time in weeks. And it was the most blissful sleep with calming dreams that made no sense of all, and he didn't ever want to wake up.

He is woken up by the sound of water running the next morning. He blinks his eyes open and rubs the sleep out of his eyes, licking his dry lips. It takes awhile for things to come into focus, but then he realizes where he is and smiles a small smile. He calls Brennan to let her know where he is, and jokingly asks her to make sure he is not fired (although he has to clarify that he doesn't seriously think they'll fire him and that he just needs her to vouch for him). She tells him she is proud of him, and wishes him luck. He thanks her, telling her she is more helpful than she could ever know, and that she is going to give great advice to her and Booth's kid.

He hears footsteps and hurriedly lies back down, closing his eyes. He hadn't planned on pretending to be asleep, but he doesn't know what kind of mood Brighton is in and doesn't want to upset her. He gets into a position so she can't see his face full on, and watches her. She has a white towel wrapped around her petite body, he hair wet and dripping water onto the floor (for which she mumbles "shit" and grabs a paper towel to soak it).

She goes over to a medicine dispenser and begins lining up different colored pills in order, counting them and gets a bottle of water out of the fridge. She swallows them swiftly and proficiently, not even taking a moment to breathe. She stares off as she swallows them, and he wonders what it is she could be thinking about, if perhaps it is him. When she's finished she makes a bowl of cereal, and turns the TV on to the morning news. She gently places his feet in her lap where she joins him on the futon.

"Are you awake, sleepyhead?" She whispers in a soft voice, a completely harmless voice.

He thinks about not saying anything, pretending to be sleep, but answers no anyway.

He opens his eyes and looks at her, she is smirking. "Glad you're being honest. I know you saw me take those pills, but you probably already know why in your files or something."

He sits up, regretting having to move his feet from the comfortable position of her lap. She still has on that towel, and her hair is still kind of wet, and she is beautiful even in the morning without an ounce of makeup. "I didn't. I only know the basics—why they wanted me to talk to you, your name, schooling, a little bit about where you grew up—"

"'A little bit about where I grew up', yeah—I wouldn't call that "basic.""

"That's true, but it's not every little personal detail about you, either. It's not what kind of music you like or your favorite film or the name your first dog…the stuff that matters."

She sighs, "I might as well tell you—about the pills, I mean. Most of them are multivitamins and of course birth control—although, it's not like I am getting any. At all. And I take one for anemia. So no big deal, I'm not crazy or anything."

Sweets nods, not knowing what to make of this moment; luckily, he doesn't have to think too long because she tells him to eat some cereal and get dressed. He asks if he can take a shower, and she says she doesn't mind.

By the time he gets out the shower she is dressed. She has on a white eyelet lace dress and sandals, her hair in a bun. She's on her laptop, editing a paper and drinking orange juice. She sees him and closes the laptop quickly, putting it in a bag and over her shoulder, and motioning for him to follow her out the door.

"Enjoy the rest of your day in New York City, Dr. Sweets" she says when they are outside the door and nearing the stairs. "Don't come looking me up later, I'm really trying to move on. I was trying to be all tough and act like I wasn't hurt, just pissed. But the truth is, you really fucking hurt me. Because, you seemed really awesome and you made me think that you thought I was awesome too. And please spare me the bullshit, "I do think you're awesome and we can be friends, I care about you" line, because it just makes it suck more. And if you really care about me even at all, you'll leave me alone."

She runs down the stairs and into the New York City throng before he can spot her. It has only been seconds, yet in a sea of thousands it is possible to be lost to one forever. _If you really care about me even at all, you'll leave me alone. _He let that mull over in his mind for a moment. She really knew how to make him question if what he was doing was right. But his heart told him it was, and he knew that he couldn't leave her alone.

He took her advice and explored New York. He didn't try hard not to be a tourist, and so indulged himself in The Museum of Metropolitan Art, Barney's, Tiffany's, and the entire ilk. Daisy would think it funny that he'd gone to the latter two, and tease him about it while smiling as if the whole world could see.

Daisy and Brighton were two completely different girls, and there was absolutely no comparison to them. Yet he found himself doing so anyway, because how could two such different girls drive him wild? Psychology shows that we are attracted to people wildly different from ourselves, that it is something in our blood—inherit, that does so. Yet psychology also says that there is something about that person that tells us we are compatible, a match.

Sweets thinks of Daisy and her long dark hair, how pretty it is when she curls it. He thinks of her effortless smile, bubbly personality, and how understanding and easy to please she is. He thinks of how she said "I love you" and how he couldn't say it back. He wonders, briefly, if he would've been able to say it two weeks earlier.

And then there's Brighton. Brighton who is a mystery and a rollercoaster and wonderful; Brighton who has shielded her heart and whose heart he crushed; a girl who it seems has already had her heart crushed before. On the outside, she seems like any other pretty, funny, intelligent college student. But inside…inside she holds her own secrets, secrets he is afraid he will never know.


End file.
